


A Steady Course (Towards the Sun)

by paraphrase



Category: Olympics RPF, Sports RPF, Swimming RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Just a whole lot of references in general, Liberal Use of the Word Jeah, M/M, References to Ryan Lochte Tweets, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-21
Updated: 2012-10-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 18:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/542710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraphrase/pseuds/paraphrase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Michael's in the middle of a shitty cycle of endless work and exhaustion and the last thing he needs is to have an annoyingly attractive real life Disney Prince smirking at him and laughing at his misfortunes. Or, the one where Michael is an overworked articling student and Ryan is a bus driver straight out of the Greek pantheon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Steady Course (Towards the Sun)

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no clue how this ended up being so long. It was only supposed to be a super short ficlet! This was born from a conversation I had with intrepidy about how Phlochte needed to have all the AUs. I hold her entirely responsible for this mess XD.

_Monday_

Michael thinks this is going to be the worst week ever.

And really, if it isn't already set in stone before, it certainly is now. Mondays _sucked_. No, scratch that; Mondays doesn't just suck. Mondays are like the bottom crust of a two-week long dirty pan or the singular sugar free glazeless donut in a box of Boston Creams and Honey Crullers. Unfortunately for Michael, Mondays also tend to be the day when the entire universe bands together to conspire against him.

It is 7:53AM, and he has exactly four minutes to tuck in his dress shirt, wrap a tie around his neck (forget tying the tie - he has no time for such luxuries), grab some sort of sustenance from his kitchen that isn't a biological hazard, slip on his shoes, and run out the door to the bus stop to catch the 11 Express to downtown. 

Don't get it twisted; it isn't that Michael's a slacker. He normally prides himself in being calm, organized, and more importantly, punctual. But ever since starting at Thorpe, Vanderkaay, and Piersol Law, every sense of balance and order in Michael's life has been thrown out the window. He barely distinguishes night from day, and he can't remember the last time he's read anything other than depositions and boxes of reports, transcripts, and Excel charts. Excel charts! He went specifically into Law so he wouldn't have to deal with Math, but apparently, nobody in his life thought it is important enough to tell him that his articling year would involve slaving over pages upon pages of numbers and graphs he can barely understand. 

"Blarrgh!" he yelps in surprise as he hears the loud ding of the toaster in the other room. He shoves the last of the Burckle case files into his laptop bag before slinging the bag haphazardly across his shoulders and pads towards the kitchen. He eyes the pile of week-long dishes strewn all over the counters and wishes, not for the first time, that magic is real and he could simply say 'Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo' and the mess would all miraculously right itself and disappear. Michael grabs two pieces of toast and laments the fact that he has no time to get a small slab of butter or jam to go with his meager breakfast.

He notes the time on the microwave and rushes towards the front door before stopping abruptly. "Shit, shit, shit," he gripes. The god damn transcript boxes. He almost forgot. Mr. Thorpe had him look over a bunch of wiretap transcripts for the Boy-Nguyen case two days ago, and fuck, Mr. Thorpe is going to _eviscerate_ him if he doesn't show up to work with them.

He runs to the bedroom, flinging the door wide open, and looks at the two file boxes ready to be picked up. He blinks and realises, _crap_ , how the hell is he going to carry all of that and his breakfast, too? "No time, no time," he mutters. So Michael shoves the two pieces of toast in his mouth, crumbs falling all over his front, and bends over to pick up the boxes with two hands. He huffs back to the front door and rushes out, barely remembering to lock his apartment.

##

Michael's running as fast as his feet can carry him, muttering prayers and supplications in his head to every deity he can think of, hoping and wishing that for once, the planets would align for him and he wouldn't miss his bus. He sees a flash of blue and white zip by at the corner of his eye, and he curses around his breakfast, running even faster now towards the bus. He tries to wave as hard as he can, hoping that the driver will see him, but it comes out looking more like a weak, flailing half arm flick, the boxes preventing him from making a bigger, more noticeable gesture.

He gets closer, just in the nick of time, as the driver starts to close the door. "Wait!" he yells, but it comes off as an unintelligible growl, bread in his mouth stopping him from actually forming any coherent word. He surges forward, one foot on the platform, trying to stop the door from closing fully. The driver opens the door wide again, and Michael wedges the rest of his body inside the bus, planting both his feet firmly on the ground and leans against the railing at the front, trying to steady himself as the door closes and the bus lurches forward.

Michael breathes a sigh of relief and wills his heart beat to slow down. Thank fucking lord, he made it. Perhaps his balls may actually have a chance of remaining intact today. He searches for a spot to temporarily drop the boxes he's carrying so he can look for his bus pass, but the bus is full, and there's absolutely no empty space to lay his boxes on. He turns slightly and presses the boxes against the railing, balancing them on his right thigh, one hand holding the top steadily. With his free hand, he starts to awkwardly pat his pockets, searching for that familiar small rectangular shape. _Come on, come on,_ he thinks, _where the fuck is that bus pass?_ He tries to shoot a small, apologetic smile at the driver for the hold up, and he freezes. Because _damn_. Where is the nice, portly old man who usually drives this route, and when did he get replaced by this - this...Michael doesn't even know. This real life Disney Prince.

Michael blinks and tries to remember what he is supposed to be doing. He doesn't think bus drivers were ever supposed to be this good looking, but it's clear that he's wrong, because this guy? He's fucking _breathtaking_. The driver is young - roughly around his age, with long, sun-tipped curly hair and the most striking blue-grey eyes Michael's ever seen. The white polo shirt he is wearing does nothing to hide the sharp definition of his shoulder muscles, and fuck, those navy blue uniform shorts just accentuates his long, lean, tanned legs even more. It's proving to be difficult for Michael to think of anything other than 'hot' and 'gorgeous' and 'want,' and what is he supposed to be thinking about again? Oh, yeah, his bus pass. 

The driver raises an eyebrow at Michael, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. He bites his lower lip, obviously trying to hold back a giggle, but he takes a look at Michael's face again then down to the sloppy way Michael's trying to balance the boxes, and he lets out a loud, booming laugh. 

Michael's smile fades, annoyance building at the pit of his stomach. He feels his cheeks heat up, and he knows he's beginning to blush like a twelve year old school girl. Honestly. Could his day get any worse? Really? Michael sees the most gorgeous guy he's ever seen since moving to this god forsaken city, and what happens? He ends up laughing at Michael's face. Thank you, universe.

The Disney Prince - erm, the driver - waves him away and says, "Don't worry about it, brah. You look like you have bigger things to worry about." He points to the boxes and the pieces of toast in Michael's mouth and chokes out a laugh again.

Michael knits his brows, irritated now, because who's this guy to judge? Honestly, not everyone can look like they just stepped out of a GQ magazine at 8:00AM, thank you very much. Just because this guy looks like the poster boy for Apollo, Adonis, and all the other Greek gods doesn't mean that shit's the norm. Michael gives the driver a short nod, because he may be annoyed as hell, but he's still polite. His Momma raised him right, of course. Unlike this guy, apparently, who thinks it's totally okay to laugh at another guy's misfortune. 

He turns away and steadies his grip on the boxes. He takes a bite of his toast before taking it out of his mouth with his free hand. He chews sulkily, a disgusted noise escaping his throat, because let's be real - toast without butter or jam tastes like fucking cardboard. 

Michael just really wants this day to be over. He's not even at the office yet, and he already feels like he's been run over by a semi and crapped on by two dozen dogs. He's barely slept, he has crumbs all over his stubble and shirt, and he hasn't had a cup of his morning coffee. And that driver! Michael's still vexed at him, of course. Stupid, condescending, who-died-and-made-him-better-than-anyone-else, sexy driver. 

And if Michael maybe ends up surreptitiously stealing glances at him, well, Michael's just doing that purely to fuel his irritation and shoot him a long evil glare, of course.

##

_Tuesday_

Michael taps his right foot as he waits for the bus. He's early for once, having slept an extra two hours the night before. Which, really, is still a pittance since he's been averaging three hours of sleep a night lately, but hey, he'll take what he can get. He takes a sip of his coffee and holds back a small moan. Michael's love affair with coffee is very serious, and he's glad that he had some alone time with his baby earlier. Well, you know, baby, espresso maker – it's all just semantics – same difference.

The familiar blue and white bus comes to view and stops in front of him. The door opens and Michael takes a good look at the driver's seat. Disney Prince. The driver from yesterday is back, and he's wearing the same uniform as the day before of white polo shirt and navy shorts. Michael can't help but stare briefly at the other man's legs, wide expanse of tanned skin exposed. It makes him think of certain possibilities and how they may look and feel around his waist as he --

Michael snaps himself out of it, and shakes his head roughly. He really doesn't need to be thinking about _that_ on his way to work. He steps onto the platform, his right hand fishing his bus pass out of his pocket and flashes it at the driver. "Got my pass ready this time," he mumbles. He nods at the driver and hesitates for a second before telling him, "thanks for yesterday."

The driver beams, showing him a set of pearly white teeth and Michael feels annoyed all over again, because damn it, can this guy be any more perfect? "Don't mention it. I have to say, you clean up well," he started, bending his head slightly to take a closer look at Michael's pass, "Michael Phelps. I almost didn't recognize you without that bread masking half your face."

Michael rolls his eyes as he takes his pass away, shoving it back into his pockets. What a dick. Is it really necessary to bring up yesterday and --

"I think I prefer you this way," the driver tells him, his voice low and steady. "I can actually see how cute you are." He smirks a little, his eyes crinkling.

Michael snaps his head up, staring directly at the other man. Did he just? Cute? Is this real life? Michael starts to open his mouth to reply, but his mind is blank, and no words come out.

The other man winks at him before turning to look up front again, manuevering the bus from the stop and driving away, a small smile still playing on his lips.

Michael thinks he should say something in return, because this _guy_. He can't just be all smirky and render Michael speechless like that. 

But then again, Michael thinks that if a real life Disney Prince says he's cute, well, who is he to argue with that?

##

_Wednesday_

Michael is running late. Again. But in his defense, Mr. Thorpe made him stay in the office until past midnight last night to help with the briefs for the Burckle case. And it isn't like he could just go straight to bed after a long day (and night) at the office. No, he still brings even more work at home and spends a few hours each night drafting rebuttals or combing through several pages of expense reports for anomalies that Mr. Thorpe can use for trial. 

He lets out a long, laboured yawn, and closes his eyes. He clasps his hands together, stretching them up high. He's tired, he's hungry, and he's maybe just a little bit cranky. With no food - not even a strawberry poptart - and no caffeine in his system, Michael feels like he is barely functioning, and the only thing he wants now is for this whole day to be over so he can go back home and sprawl all over his king-sized bed. A blaring, cacophonous noise lifts Michael out of his sleepy reverie and he opens one eye. The bus. 

He wills his body to move forward and he hops on the bus, eyes still bleary, a frown forming on his face. He's just glad he's on time for the bus, to be honest - if only because it would be a bitch to have to catch the next one and face the wrath of Mr. Thorpe for being late, of course.

"Hello there, Michael Phelps," a sinfully cheery voice greets at him.

Yeah, his positive reaction to not missing the bus definitely has nothing to do with his new favourite, maddening bus driver. Definitely.

Michael nods and shows the driver his pass before leaning against the yellow bar at the front. "Hello to you, too, Disn---" he starts, catching himself. He blinks and clears his throat. "---ehm, Mr. Bus Driver."

"Disn--ehm, Mr. Bus Driver?" the other man questions as he shifts to shut the door. He's smiling, wide and open and fully directed at Michael, and fuck, is it ever disarming.

Michael flushes. "I don't exactly know your name, so Mr. Bus Driver it is," he replies. Michael tries to subtlety straighten his dress shirt. He knows he looks a bit dishevelled, and Michael can't help but feel just a tiny bit self-conscious. 

"Ryan."

Michael blinks at the short response, a little confused, his brain still clearly addled with sleep.

The other man laughs softly without a trace of malice. "Ryan," he repeats. "That's my name, cutie."

"Oh," Michael says. Ryan. He tests the name in his head and decides he likes it. He looks like a Ryan, he thinks, even though Ryan isn't exactly a prime example of a Disney Prince name. But Disney is overrated anyway, sometimes, and Michael decides that Ryan's name is, well, absolutely _perfect_.

##

_Thursday_

"One of these days, I'm going to wrangle a smile out of you, Michael Phelps."

Michael rolls his eyes as he gets on the bus, flashing the driver – no, _Ryan_ , his bus pass. He looks at the seemingly permanent grin on the other man's face, and he feels his lips quirk upward a tad. 

"Is that a hint of a smile I see?" Ryan says gleefully. "Damn, I knew I was good, but I didn't know I was _that_ good. Jeah!"

Michael just shakes his head, trying to hide the smile that's slowly and uncontrollably gracing his features. Damn it, this _guy_. He doesn't know what it is about Ryan that makes him forget about how exhausted or crabby he's feeling - it's like Ryan's his instant happy pill. A really, really, _really_ sexy happy pill. 

Ryan looks at him curiously, searching Michael's face briefly before turning his eyes back on the road. "You should do that more, you know?" he says. "It looks really good on you."

Michael bristles at the compliment, and tries to play off the pink that's sure to be tingeing his cheeks now. "Not really a lot to smile about these days," he shrugs. 

Ryan scoffs at him. "There's always a lot of things to smile about," Ryan says. "You just gotta wake up and smell the gardens, brah." 

"Yeah, well, the gardens in my life tend to smell like ripe, rotten funeral flowers," Michael replies. "It's hard to be excited about that." And really, ain't that the truth. Michael's days are a cycle of work, work, and more work blurring into each other until Michael can't even tell which day is which. 

Ryan lays a hand on his shoulder, just for a moment, and Michael almost jumps at the small shot of spark from Ryan's finger tips dancing on his shirt, seeping under and grazing his skin. "You need to loosen up a little, Michael," he starts. "You know what I do when I wake up and I feel like my day is about to turn to shit?"

Michael quirks an eyebrow and listens closely.

Ryan leans into him conspiratorially, voice low and intimate against the hum of the other passengers around them. "I say the loudest motherfucking JEAH I can." 

Michael splutters, snorting in disbelief at Ryan's response. "Jeah? Really?" Michael says. "What on earth is that, even?"

"Hey, don't knock the power of the Jeah until you've tried it," Ryan says. He rolls his shoulders lightly, keeping both his hands on the wheel. "You should try it. Come on, what've you got to lose?"

Michael contemplates this for a minute in his head. Ryan does have a point - what does he have to lose? "Jeah," he says softly, unsure of how the word feels on his tongue.

Ryan breaks into the most radiant grin Michael's ever seen and he claps him gently on the shoulders. "That all you got?" he teases. "You can do better than that, right?"

Michael shakes his head and bites his lips. Because really, there's no way he's going to say it any louder than that. The bus is full, and he really doesn't want to be branded as that crazy guy on the bus and have his mug end up all over Youtube. But he peers at Ryan, and Ryan's giving him this earnest and encouraging look, and he can't help but go against his resolve. "Jeah!" he says, louder this time.

"Jeah! Louder, Michael, come on," Ryan goads. "Motherfucking Jeah!"

Michael laughs before taking a deep breath. Ryan is just so infectious, and he finds he's having trouble saying no and he's unable to go against the other man, so he gives in. He lets out a boisterous noise, and yells at the top of his lungs. "Jeah!"

"Yes!" Ryan whoops, nodding his head madly. "I told you - doesn't that just feel _awesome_? I'm telling you, the rest of your day's gonna be fantastic now, Mike."

Michael hears snickering behind him and he colours. He just made a fool out of himself in front of lord knows how many people. But surprisingly, he finds he doesn't really care, because Ryan is right - it does feel awesome. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders - even if it's only for a short time - and he thinks maybe, just maybe, the rest of his day really is going to be fantastic now.

There's no way he's going to tell Ryan that, though, so he just grins back and points at Ryan. "You're a terrible influence, you know that, right?" 

##

_Friday_

Michael stares at the coffee cup on his desk despondently. It's only 8:32AM and his concentration is already shot. He has another bazillion hours left, and he's not entirely sure how he's going to survive the rest of the day. He's been looking forward to the last day of the work week, but now that it's here, he doesn't understand why he feels even more gloomy and depressed. 

Okay, that's a bit of a lie.

Michael knows exactly why he feels like a toddler in a sandbox whose candy just got stolen. 

Ryan.

Or the lack of Ryan, rather. His stomach flips as thoughts of the other man comes fluttering through his mind. He couldn't ride the bus on his usual time this morning since Mr. Thorpe asked him last night to come a couple of hours earlier to help prep for the Burckle trial (and really, he thinks that the Burckle case just needs to die in a fire, because it's _always_ the Burckle case). 

Don't get him wrong - he has nothing against the older gentleman driving the 6:08AM bus. Michael's sure that he's a nice man, but it doesn't change the fact that he's not Ryan. He doesn't have Ryan's curly locks that just beckons to be touched or Ryan's full, plush lips or Ryan's muscled calves or --- 

"Fuck," Michael whimpers.

It's official. He is so screwed. So screwed. 

##

_Saturday_

Michael feels like the most pathetic guy in the world. It's ass o'clock on a Saturday morning, and he's standing outside waiting for the bus instead of sleeping in his big, comfy bed - the one that he's finally able to sleep on for more than a few hours at a time. He actually has the weekend off; a rarity these days, and he wants to bang his head against the nearest surface for wasting what little precious freedom he has.

He tells himself that he's going downtown today to fetch more groceries for his fridge, and it would've been a convincing argument if it weren't for that shop five doors down from his apartment that has all of the things he needs. The bus rears to a stop, and Michael starts to feel the butterflies in his stomach churn even more violently. 

Because let's be real, the reason Michael is up this early in the morning on a Saturday isn't because he's hungry.

Okay, he is a bit hungry. But he's not hungry for food, that's for sure.

Michael steps on the bus, a well-rehearsed greeting about to escape from his lips when he stops. "Where's Ryan?" he blurts out. He winces as soon as he says the words and shoots the new bus driver an apologetic look. He doesn't mean to be rude; the possibility that Ryan might not be working today just isn't anywhere on his plan, and the change threw him off guard for a moment. 

The bus driver nods kindly at him. He's glad she doesn't seem to have taken offense to his abrupt question. "Lochte?" she replies. "He's off today and tomorrow."

"Oh," Michael says. "That...that makes sense." And Michael wants to die on the spot because how could he have missed that? Obviously, Ryan would have the weekend off if he worked from Monday to Friday. 

"You know, it's funny - Ryan was only supposed to cover this route for one day," she says.

Her tone is friendly and Michael takes this as an invitation to ask a few questions. "Yeah? So this route is just temporary for him?" Michael feels his chest constrict a little. He doesn't want to think about it, but the prospect of Ryan driving a different route on Monday looms over his head. 

She nods as she thrums the wheel with her fingers in time with the music on the radio. "Yeah, he normally prefers to have mornings off," she tells him. "That boy loves to surf at the break of dawn and there aren't many things that could pull him away from the waves."

Michael deflates, his shoulders sagging, gaze falling to the floor. That's it. It's over before it even begins, and Michael curses inwardly for not being forward enough to ask Ryan for his number. 

"Something must have changed his mind, though."

Michael snaps his head back, training his eyes on the driver. "What do you mean?" he asks. 

"Ryan made a request to transfer to this route until the next shift bid," she replies. "Whatever it was that changed his mind, it must've been extra compelling and convincing." She glints at him cheekily, and Michael would've blushed if it weren't for the sudden, unabashed joy that starts to form inside him. "You'll see him again on Monday."

Michael beams at her, and walks down the center of the bus and sits on the first available chair he sees. 

Monday. He could wait for Monday. 

And if Michael starts to mentally count how many hours there is left to go until Monday, well, can anyone blame him?

##

_Monday_

If someone told Michael a week ago that he would be willing to forego an hour and a half of sleep in favour of pressing his shirt in crisp, sleek lines and taming his hair to perfection on a Monday morning, he would've said that they were certifiably insane. Not even an NSYNC reunion concert would've detracted him from his bed, but things change, and so here he is, waiting at the bus stop ten minutes early. 

The time seems to drag on, and Michael becomes increasingly anxious. His hands feel clammy and he starts to pace, trying to think of something - anything - to keep his mind off Ryan. He's still not entirely sure what he's going to do or say. He's tried to plan it all in his mind, tried to play each possible scenario that can happen. He's practiced the words over and over again, but he still feels lost and unprepared. 

_This is a terrible idea,_ he thinks. What if he's read it all wrong? What if the electricity he feels that crackles between Ryan and him were all just a figment of his imagination? What if Ryan laughs at his face, uppercuts him, and then promptly kicks him out of the bus?

The running commentary of doubt in his head gets interrupted when he hears the sharp screech of the bus pulling up in front of him. 

_Here goes nothing,_ he thinks. He plasters on a nervous smile and hops on the platform, waving a quick hello to Ryan as he flashes him his bus pass. "G'morning, Ryan," Michael says softly, if a bit on the shy side. 

"Michael," Ryan responds brightly. Michael can feel the other man's eyes rake over him, trailing slowly down the length of his body and he fights the urge to smirk. It's not often he can say this, but Michael _knows_ he looks damn good today. Suddenly, that hour and a half of lost sleep in favour of making himself look a bit more presentable seems completely worth it now. 

Ryan takes a big gulp of air and licks his lips. "God damn, Michael," he says quietly, his voice hoarse and strained. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Maybe I just thought you needed a little eye candy to get you through Monday morning," Michael replies. He cringes inwardly after he's said the words. He's trying for coy, but his non-existent flirting skills just made his words sound awkward. He shoots Ryan a small smile and leans against the railing, trying his best to seem casual and relaxed. 

"Oh, trust me, babe. You were already eye candy before - bread in your mouth and all."

"Yeah?" Michael asks.

"Jeah," Ryan says simply. 

They were quiet for a few moments, until Ryan clears his throat and says, "You, uh, you weren't here on Friday?" He poses it like a question and it's the first time Michael's heard the normally unshakeable confidence that laces his tone waver.

Michael nods and hums apologetically. "I wanted to," he starts. "My boss asked me to come in a couple of hours early, so I had to take a different bus." Michael loops his fingers around the bottom of his tie, his eyes flickering to the ground as he nervously continues. "I was here Saturday, though. I was, uh, I was hoping I'd be able to catch you."

Ryan steals a glance his way, confusion etched on his face. "You work on Saturdays?"

Michael shakes his head, and he feels sick in his stomach. "No, I don't," he replies. 

"Then why were you – _oh_." Realization dawns on Ryan and he gives Michael a huge, blinding grin. "Yeah?" he asks.

"Jeah." 

Ryan stops the bus to let more people in and he takes this time to focus his attention solely on Michael. "I hope I'm not reading this wrong," he says slowly, "and if I am, you really need to tell me now because---"

"Ryan," Michael interrupts, as he places a hand on Ryan's arm. He nods at Ryan encouragingly, and Michael is kind of awed at the slight role reversal. He's supposed to be the babbling one and the thought of Ryan being just as nervous as he is warms his heart a little. 

Ryan takes a deep breath. "Have dinner with me tonight," he blurts out. "I mean, if you wanted to. I'm not going to force you if you don't, and I know this is probably going too fast and---"

"Ryan," Michael says again. "I want to."

"Yeah?" Ryan asks as he moves to shut the door and drive away from the stop. 

Michael doesn't take his hand from Ryan's arm, but he moves his thumb slightly and rubs small circles on Ryan's skin. "I do," he says. "I really do."

Ryan looks at him briefly, his gaze soft and hopeful. "I'm off shift at 5:00; how about I pick you up at 6:00? You work at that building in front of the stop on Mercer and Davis, right?" he clarifies. 

"I do," Michael says. "Make it 6:30, and you've got yourself a date."

"A date, huh?" Ryan questions. A lock of hair falls on his face, and Michael's breath catches, because god, Ryan really is gorgeous. "I think I like the sound of that a lot."

"Jeah," Michael says, "me too." He thinks back to the first time Ryan introduced the word to him, and he thinks Ryan is absolutely right. There is definitely power behind the Jeah.

"Jeah," he says again, softer this time, and he smiles because, yeah, this is definitely going to be the best week ever.


End file.
